Page 16 of Thornhill Road

It definitely wasn’t a good idea.

But I’d already made a mess with one horrible idea—what was one more?

So long as I kept my clothes on, how much worse could it get?

Maybe I really could get Mustang to go inside.

At least, that’s what I needed to tell myself before I told him, “Okay. A drink, then. But my schedule is—”

“How about tomorrow night? My bar. Nine o’clock.”

Remarkably, I could make that work.

“Okay. Nine o’clock.” Agreeing on a time reminded me I was late for Ed when I’d pulled into the driveway, which meant now I was even more so. “I really do need to get inside. Your fath—uh—Ed,” I stammered, correcting myself, “he’s only my second patient of the night, and I’m already behind.”

“Tomorrow then.”

He turned and went to get on his bike.

I wished I hadn’t watched.

He mounted it like it was an extension of him, which was the reminder I didn’t need that Mustang wasn’t merely a bad boy—he was a badass biker. He was a Wild Stallion who rode wild and roamed free.

The light from above the garage highlighted the back of his kutte, and I took in its details. He had three patches.Wild Stallionswas sewn in a slight arch across his shoulders. Alongthe bottom was his Wyoming location patch. Finally, in the middle was the metal skull stallion emblem. Unlike his black and gray tattoo, it was in color—the fire on the stallion’s mane red and orange underneath the dinge and dirt he collected on the road.

I stood there, and I watched him, and I knew.

If I let him, he’d break my heart.

I just couldn’t let him.

Before he started his engine, he glanced at me from over his shoulder and said, “Night, Tess.”

All I could manage was a wave.

I stared at myselfin the mirror and shook my head.

It was Saturday night, and I was dressed and ready to leave for Steel Mustang.

My outfit was a clear indicator a biker bar wasexactlywhere I wanted to be that night.

But that didn’t make any of this a good idea.

I wasn’t afrillskind of gal. I never wore a ton of makeup, mostly because washing it all off was a chore in which I was not interested. Other than a pair of studs in my ears, I didn’t really wear jewelry. I owned exactlyonelittle black dress, and I wasn’t sure when I’d last worn it, but I was sure I wouldn’t be wearing it to meet Mustang.

I was keeping my clothes on that night, and that dress implied otherwise.

I’d opted for a pair of jeans.

Then again—I had a pretty kickass collection of jeans.

I wasn’t afrillskind of gal, but that didn’t mean I wasn’t the kind of woman who would absolutely drop two-hundred dollars on a pair of jeans that fit just right. I couldn’t go out in anythingless than a great pair of jeans if I also wanted to wear a fabulous pair of shoes—and I had some pretty freaking fabulous shoes.

I was only twelve when my mom died. I wasn’t old enough to absorb a lot of her wisdom, but there was one thing in particular she taught me that I would never forget. She told me life was short, and if I wanted red-sole Louboutins, I should buy them, wear them, and enjoy them.

I’d never been to Paris or Italy. I’d never seen Central Park or the Grand Canyon. I hadn’t gone on a real vacation in years—but I did own three pairs of Christian Louboutins and four pairs of Jimmy Choo heels.

That night, I was going with Jimmy.

---